


And you will never be lonely

by AlyxStar



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-11
Updated: 2017-03-11
Packaged: 2018-10-02 20:03:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,189
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10226129
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlyxStar/pseuds/AlyxStar
Summary: They've got time to unwind now.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: you know the drill. I don't own FFXV or any of its content. Square Enix does.
> 
> A/N: so one of my nearest and dearest requested Ignoct fluff, and an anon on tumblr requested "your hair is turning grey" and then I started typing and this happened.

The most heavily damaged areas of the Citadel had undergone reparations first so that from the outside she looks restored to her former glory, as imposing and impenetrable as the _home_ Noctis remembers.  But inside the towering walls many of the corridors are still sectioned off, encased in carefully assembled scaffolding, dust and debris slowly but surely removed one room at a time.  A process which could be hastened if the elevators were allowed functionality again, but Noctis himself had decided against it, remembering the ominous creaking from the one they’d taken to the throne room all those months ago.

Months… and yet it felt only yesterday that he’d summoned his weapons against Ardyn, laid his life at the feet of his ancestors and the Astrals alike.  His mind drifts down its own corridors as his feet take him down the route he knows will lead to Ignis, so familiar that he could close his eyes and reach his destination without a stumble or collision with a door.

A boon from those most favourable to humans, a chance to rule that _should_ have been withheld from him, to settle the war between nations once and for all, on the condition that the Lucis Caelum line ends with him.  He’d originally laughed in Shiva’s face, too exhausted and soul-weary to bother with the potential for insult, but now it just brings a smile to his face.  As if his bloodline had ever had a chance to extend beyond him, when his heart was held by only one.  The potential for an heir was _non-existent_.  He shakes away the sticky tendrils of memory when the clack of shoes on marble abruptly transitions to the give of wet soil and grass, opening his eyes and squinting them against the weak rays of morning’s sunlight.  Another hour and the dew will have evaporated, chill’s bite chased from the air in favour of a warmth that will turn his skin lobster-red if he remains exposed too long, a small price to pay in favour of finding chocobos and moogles in the cloud pattern high above.  But for now every exhale still mists in the air before him and he bends to remove his shoes even as eyes rove over colourful petals and plants that will soon heft the weight of a harvest, looking for black leather folded neatly at the base of an apple tree.  When he doesn’t find Ignis perched on one of the many sturdy branches nor quietly reading behind the rosebushes he heads for the archway that marks the border between garden and grave.

His father rests here, Clarus and Nyx by his side, and Luna, too.  Cut down from their restraints and skin bathed of the Scourge’s remnants before a proper burial was given.  He keeps his hands down by his sides as he edges closer, lets the very tips of calloused fingers caress the flowers as he passes, ever so gentle with the contact.  The air is much more comforting here, the Sylleblossoms releasing their perfume with the last kiss of moonlight and hiding their petals by dawn, a smell he remembers from Tenebrae.  He has no recollection of when the first flower bloomed in this little courtyard, only knows that it _did_ and so many more followed in its wake, but he knows why.  Luna’s favourite, a gift of healing when they dry up and their seeds are shed, picked by the hundreds and used in poultices and potions alike.  A far more fitting marker of her grave than any carved stone he could have commissioned.

And there Ignis is on the bench by those graves, as graceful in stillness as he is in motion, visor missing from a face tipped towards the sky and the sun it cradles.  He, too, finds comfort amidst the swathes of blue (not that he can _see_ the delicate colours any more), comes here more often than Noctis does for the peace and quiet offered.  The sound of his approach draws his partner’s attention, breath punching from Noctis’ lungs as that sightless eye meets his gaze.  It's a moment that passes as Ignis smiles, deepening the faint lines on his face, and it’s almost impossible to remember a time when he _didn’t_ smile so freely, a time when his hands were always encased in leather and his hair swept up from his forehead, a time when worry and frowns were the most prominent expressions on his face.

There is no King and Royal Advisor when he straddles strong thighs, when hands settle at the small of his back to steady and support him.  There is only Ignis and he, and soft whispers of “good morning” traded for softer kisses and fingertips tracing the scars left on his partner’s face by fire and metal, and his heart is so full of _love_ for this man that he could honestly cry from it.  He draws back from Ignis’ mouth eventually, running his fingers through his hair instead and just _gazing_ at him like the little lovestruck fool he is.  Ignis doesn’t seem to mind the attention, if his low hum of contentment is anything to go by, hands finding the twisted expanse of scar tissue bisecting Noctis’ back and ever so skilfully kneading at the surrounding flesh and the knots of tension Noctis hadn’t even been aware of, and when he tips his head back again to enjoy the warmth of sunlight on his face a glimmer above his ear catches Noctis’ attention and makes his breath stutter somewhere in his chest.

“Your hair is turning grey.”

“Is it?”  Ignis doesn’t even sound bothered, and he could almost swear his smile turns… _knowing_.

“Yes, right here.”  He trails his fingers at Ignis’ temple, the cluster of bright strands almost hidden in all the brown, slides them to cradle the back of his head and draw him in for another kiss.

“You’re affectionate this morning.”

“ _Someone_ didn’t wake me up in time for cuddles in bed.”  He doesn’t mind when Ignis draws back from his mouth, not when the distance is filled with rich laughter and those crinkles appearing in the corner of his right eye and pinching at the jagged scarring over his left.  He _looks_ happy and he _sounds_ happy and that, Noctis thinks, is worth every hardship and heartache they’ve had to endure to reach this point.

“Pray tell, how might I go about apologising for my error in judgement?”

“Don’t dye your hair.”  He says it too quickly, doesn’t need to see the arching of Ignis’ eyebrow to know it.

“You like the greys, I take it?”

“Oh shut up.”

“Hmm… I don’t think I will.”

So Noctis makes him, stealing every word from his mouth with playful little nips until his lips are reddened and his hands have gone slack in their ministrations.

And really, just imagining Ignis with salt-and-pepper hair shouldn’t make him squirm, but oh it does.  It so definitely does, because while Ignis had been attractive ten years ago?  He’s one hell of a hot mess now, and he’s pretty sure the smug bastard knows it, too.


End file.
